


Shall You Be My New Romance

by Lacerta26



Series: If Not, Winter [5]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Bittersweet, Dancing, Established Relationship, Growing Old Together, Holidays, M/M, Party, Post-Canon, Richard "Dick" Ellis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:46:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28814379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacerta26/pseuds/Lacerta26
Summary: Thomas and Richard through the years, dancing.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: If Not, Winter [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915414
Comments: 16
Kudos: 30





	1. Downton, July, 1927

**Author's Note:**

> The plan was to write something happier which I mostly achieved. If you'd like to keep it that way, don't read the last chapter!
> 
> Departing from my naming convention with this one, title from 'Shall We Dance?' from the King & I. 
> 
> Thanks for reading ^_^

Mr Barrow lets them in through the Servant’s Entrance, into the darkened hallway and it feels like they both breathe out to be safely back at Downton again. 

‘I should just...check.’

Mr Barrow squeezes past him down the corridor towards the Butler’s Pantry and Richard follows. Although there will be no one down here to hear them they move slowly, alert in the cool blue darkness and even with Mr Barrow by his side Richard is wary about being down here, awake in the early hours in a house he’s only a guest in. 

‘You can go to bed,’ says Mr Barrow flicking on the light and going around to the other side of his desk.

‘I’ll wait for you,’ Richard leans in the doorway to watch as Mr Barrow goes through the papers with a frown on his face, shifting the mess that’s accumulated from Mr Wilson _and_ Mr Carson until he finds his post.

‘Shoe’s on the other foot, now,’ Mr Barrow says but he’s smiling lightly, looking at Richard in a way that might be described as coy. 

‘Well, quite. But I’m afraid punctuality has never been my strong suit.’

‘And how does His Majesty feel about that?’ 

Mr Barrow drops his hip to perch on the edge of the desk, definitely flirting now as he wields the letter opener. 

‘I have my methods.’

Richard steps forward into the room. He’s wanted to get closer all evening and he thought he’d missed his chance but they seem to be on the same page now, trading teasing barbs they don’t really mean and Mr Barrow is smiling again, not anxious as he rightly was earlier. 

‘Maybe you should apply them more conscientiously.’ 

‘Or you’ll find someone else to go dancing with?’ 

Mr Barrow’s face falls and Richard knows immediately that he’s said the wrong thing. 

‘I’m sorry, I should have…’ Mr Barrow begins but it shouldn’t be for him to apologise. It was Richard’s fault, he was late and Mr Barrow was alone, why shouldn’t he take up another offer, and because of that he ended up in danger.

‘No, I’m sorry, Mr Barrow, I shouldn’t have kept you waiting…’

‘Thomas. My Christian name is Thomas,’ he says, _Thomas_ says and it’s an olive branch that Richard is glad for. 

‘Mine’s Richard.’

‘I know,’ Thomas touches a hand to the breast pocket of his jacket, where he must have slipped Richard’s card, it’s an unconscious movement but telling and Richard can’t help but smile.

‘But most people call me Dick,’ he continues on a laugh, ‘well, my friends. And my mother.’

Thomas has come round to Richard’s side of the desk now standing close enough that Richard can really study him; the planes of his cheekbones, the blue of his eyes, he’s so handsome when he smiles. 

‘Would you dance with me, Dick?’ 

There’s no music playing but it’s so natural for them to step closer together in the small room and Thomas puts his arms around Richard, holding him close and leading them in a slow waltz. It’s mostly just revolving on the spot but Thomas is warm and he smells clean and cold like the outside. 

‘I don’t do this often enough,’ says Richard.

‘What?’ Thomas’s breath is warm against Richard’s cheek, one hand at his hip, the other looped under his arm to his shoulder.

‘Dance,’ with men I've just met, with men I hardly know.

‘I’d hardly call this dancing, not really.’

Even like this Thomas moves like he knows what he’s doing and Richard longs for more space, music, an audience - if that were a simple thing to hope for. 

‘Oh, Yeah? Would you care to show me?’

‘Perhaps another time. For now, I think it’s high time we went to bed.’

Richard almost steps back in surprise, confused as to why Thomas wants to cut the night short, but Thomas keeps hold of him and the quirk of his eyebrow is hard to misinterpret although his cheeks are pink like he can't believe his own boldness. 

‘Lead the way, Mr Barrow.’


	2. London, February, 1928

It’s early days between them and they’ve seen each other less than they’d like since their first meeting but it’s something of a baptism of fire to meet so many of Richard’s friends at once. Thomas only made it down to London on the train yesterday and he feels he’s had hardly any of Richard’s time before he has to share him. 

Richard seems to know people everywhere, from every walk of life, and the man who owns this flat in Marylebone is clearly one of means although Richard was rather vague on what they were or exactly how they came to know each other. Thomas is slightly terrified that someone here will know Lady Edith and he’ll say the wrong thing in their range of hearing but so far everyone has been charming and delighted to meet the man who Richard met in Yorkshire and won’t stop talking about. 

The party was already in full swing when they arrived, greeted at the door by one of Richard’s friends wearing a party hat and a fur stole. He hands them each a glass of champagne before leading them through to the living room, shouting introductions as they pass as if Thomas has any hope of remembering anyone’s name. 

The rooms are decorated with streamers and there are lamps on every surface throwing a hazy, golden glow over the guests, making the dresses of the women sparkle, casting the face of every man into one of handsome film star angles. In the living room there’s a band playing cheerful but unobtrusively in the corner and although everyone has had a fair bit to drink no one seems to want to be the first to dance. A space has opened in the middle of the room but no one is filling it and it seems to Thomas too good of an opportunity to miss. 

He turns to Richard with a grin and the answering smile he gets in return already feels like a language all of their own. It makes it easy to be brave. 

‘May I have this dance, Mr Ellis?’

Richard takes his hand, ‘it would be an honour, Mr Barrow.’ 

The band strikes up a jauntier tune now that they have dancers to satisfy and the faces that turn towards them are bright with interest, smiling. They’ve danced before, between the beds in hotel rooms, that first night back at Downton but never with a proper musical accompaniment, never with an audience. Thomas knows he’s good, as long as Richard lets him lead, and they start with a lively quickstep, showing off just because they can. Holding each other close, in front of company, grinning foolishly at each other it's a thrill and it goes to Thomas's head quicker than the champagne. 

The space fills around them quickly as other couples get up to dance and they can melt back into the crowd to pause for breath. Thomas sits in an empty chair at the edge of the room while Richard goes to find them drinks and a young woman sits herself next to him without a word by way of introduction.

‘Where did you learn to dance like that?’ her eyes are earnest and she reminds him forcibly of Lady Rose when she was younger; instantly charming, guileless, at ease in herself and with company. 

‘Would you believe me if I said America?’

‘I love to dance but Sylvia hates it. Two left feet you know,’ she shrugs and carries on, ‘and you’re with Dick? Cecil says he won’t stop talking about you. Cecil’s a little put out because his beau broke it off with him last week but he was a cad so it’s better off all round really. Cecil’s my cousin, this is his flat,’ she finishes by way of explanation and Thomas feels a little dazed. 

Richard appears in that moment like a lifeline with two more glasses of champagne and something of an apologetic look. 

‘I see you’ve met Thomas, Imogen.’

She jumps up to kiss Richard on both cheeks in greeting, ‘hello, Dick. Thomas has been telling me about learning to dance in America.’ 

‘Is that all?’

‘You know I don’t like to gossip, darling. Well, I’m going to see if Sylvia will dance with me after all, wish me luck! Nice to meet you, Thomas!’ she beams at them and dashes off towards a woman in a handsomely cut suit who seems to be fondly resisting any urge to dance despite Imogen’s insistence. 

Thomas watches them for a moment, ‘could we have ever been like that do you think, at that age?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Richard as he sits down, ‘it was a different time when we were young. And if she doesn’t want to she’ll never have to work a day in her life. That freedom counts for a lot.’

Thomas can’t imagine Richard as anything other than the self assured man he met last year, who dared to flirt with a handsome man in an unfamiliar house, and thinks of himself when he was younger, covering so much insecurity with unearned confidence. Of course neither of them had a grown up cousin with a flat in Marylebone and inherited wealth to protect against the shocks. 

They sit quietly, still in the effervescent atmosphere, and then he downs his champagne and turns to Richard; it may have taken almost half a lifetime to get here but he’s not going to waste it now.

‘Shall we dance again? While we’re still young enough to look good doing it?’

‘I think it’s clear by now that if I’m dancing with you it will always look good,’ Richard says, with a smile, as he takes Thomas’s hand. 


	3. York, April, 1936

Thomas is sat cross legged on the floor, sorting through books in front of the shelves that stand either side of the fireplace. Even from his position by the door Richard can see one or two that were almost certainly pinched from Downton’s library. The room is lit only by the low light of a lamp, disorderly and cosy because neither of them have made much headway on unpacking yet. Between them they don’t have much but it’s enough, it’s a start, to make this their home. 

The record hisses and cracks as Richard lowers the arm of the gramophone and Thomas turns to look up at him. The smile that breaks across his face is arresting, sincere and open.

Richard extends a hand and returns the smile, ‘dance with me.’

Thomas doesn’t move except to glance with concern at the window, ‘the curtains are open.’

‘So close them and dance with me.’

Thomas accepts the hand Richard is still holding out to him but once he’s standing he does go to the window to draw the curtains. This was Richard’s parents house, the street Richard grew up on, he feels safe here, safer than he might in most other places, but for Thomas it’s all new, uncertainty is to be expected. 

When he’s satisfied they have their privacy Thomas crosses the room and puts himself in Richard’s arms. It’s appalling form, pressed together from chest to knees, their arms around each other and cheek to cheek as they sway to the lilting melody, an embrace more than anything but it’s perfect, too. 

‘I never thought I’d have this,’ says Thomas quietly, the rasp of his stubble against Richard’s collar and his lips moving against Richard’s skin. 

‘Neither did I,’ Richard smiles into the fabric of Thomas’s shirt, runs a soothing hand between his shoulder blades. 

He knows what Thomas is like and he wants to redirect any melancholy before it takes hold. He’ll never stop trying to convince Thomas that they deserve this but tonight he wants only joy in their house and it seems that’s what Thomas wants as well. 

‘I like it. Knowing I can dance with you whenever I like.’

‘We can do anything we like here,’ Richard means it innocently but Thomas still chuckles, low in his chest and it radiates out, vibrating between them, and Richard rolls his eyes, ‘yes, that too.’

They’ve already christened the bedroom if not quite the bed itself, almost as soon as they were through the door, like they were ten years younger and utterly unable to contain themselves and that is thrilling in itself. To have Thomas pressed close against him and know he can reach out and touch, ask for what he wants and be given it. 

But Thomas is nodding soberly, ‘I know what you mean. We’re free here, to be as we are, to be as we want to be.’

‘For as long as we like.’

Neither of them say forever but it feels to Richard like this must be it, a certainty beating so fervently underneath his ribs he’s sure Thomas must be able to hear it.

They’re still swaying slightly, moving with tiny steps between the books and boxes on the floor. It's only takes the slightest movement, the turn of his head, the twitch of his fingers against Thomas's hip and suddenly he's being kissed with so much feeling. Thomas's hands are gentle against Richard’s jaw but the kiss is firm, bruising and all Richard can do is sink into it and let Thomas hold him up, keep him together. Richard holds tightly to Thomas’s shirt, bunched in his hand and closes his eyes, as Thomas deepens the kiss, tongue against tongue, as if he’s trying to make them as one. 

They break apart breathing deeply and trading soft kisses, lips landing aimless against cheek and brow. Thomas kisses his temple and shifts as if to move away, ‘I should get back to sorting these books.’ 

‘Not just yet,’ Richard keeps his arms tight around Thomas and doesn’t let go. 

The record has long since stopped playing, only letting out the quiet hiss of static but neither of them make a move to change it.


	4. York, November, 1939

_The Wizard of Oz_ would not have been Thomas’s choice of film although he has to admit Judy Garland is very talented. Richard always chooses the films, he always chooses musicals and Thomas always lets him. 

He does like the cinema, though, regardless of the film. The darkness is protective and he can sit closely with Richard, shoulders, elbows brushing and no one ever knows. It feels like they’re getting away with something every time their hands touch on the armrest, every time they catch each other’s eye in the flickering light from the screen. 

Stepping outside on to New Street Thomas is briefly disoriented by the darkness, it was still daylight when they arrived at the cinema albeit gloomy and overcast. It’s rained since they’ve been inside and the pavements shine in the dark as they start to walk home; war was declared not two months ago and already it feels like the city is changing, missing railings and an air of suppressed anticipation at the hospital, ration books and uncertainty. If it’s anything like the last one Thomas doesn’t know how they’ll get through it. 

They turn a corner and Richard nudges Thomas with his shoulder, takes him out of his reverie, ‘what did you think?’

He never holds his tongue but he does make sure to soften his honesty on occasion, ‘a bit sentimental for my taste.’

Richard takes it with good grace, ‘that’s not so bad is it? It’s a good lesson, that everything you need to be better is already within you, that you don’t need to change who you are to grow as a person.’

‘And you still end up back where you started.’

‘Geographically, perhaps.’

Thomas laughs in spite of himself; Richard always makes it so easy to bask in the fondness, the nostalgia between them. He’s always so sincere, so easy with his laughter and his affection that it makes it simple to let go of any cynicism and indulge him. Especially when it comes to his appalling taste in films. 

‘Anyway, you can always leave the sentiment to me,’ he continues as he catches Thomas by the hand and spins him a few steps forward, laughing.

‘Richard!’ 

The street they’re in is dark and empty, there’s no one to see them and it’s thrilling rather than dangerous to let Richard dance with him a few steps along the cobbles, singing, his accent gone, ‘ _I'd be tender, I'd be gentle and awful sentimental...’_

‘If you only had a brain more like. How can you possibly know the words already?’

Richard shrugs and lets him go, ‘it’s catchy.’ 

Thomas misses the proximity but they’re heading towards a busier thoroughfare and even at this time of night there’s no guarantee it’ll be empty. They walk in silence for a while, companionable in the soft, close darkness before Thomas decides to speak.

‘I think if I woke up tomorrow back at Downton, I wouldn’t be pleased to be there and it was my home for a long time.’ 

‘York is your Emerald City then?’ 

Richard says it lightly but moves imperceptibly closer and their shoulders brush on every other step so Thomas knows he’s not teasing, not really. It certainly felt like Richard remade his world in Technicolor when they met and perhaps he does take that for granted these days but they’ve had a nice evening, seen the film Richard wanted to see and Thomas has left all that behind, or at least he tries to, the pessimism, the apathy, so he grins and joins in with the joke. 

‘And you’re the man behind the curtain.’

‘The Good Fairy, please, coming down on a moonbeam.’ 

‘I think she was a witch.’

‘Same difference.’ 

They’ve reached their street and Richard fishes the front door keys out of his pocket. 

_‘There’s no place like home,’_ he intones as he turns the key, he’s being deliberately ridiculous but Thomas thinks privately that no truer words have ever been spoken. 


	5. Robin Hood’s Bay, March, 1948

Their hotel is lovely and they can see the sea from their room but it has twin beds and it’s increasingly tiring to have to push them together each night. It’s been such a long time since they’ve been on holiday together, since they’ve been _able_ to go on holiday together, but this is Thomas’s sixtieth year and they felt it should be marked somehow. 

They’re aren’t planning to be here long and already it’s rained every single day making the prospect of brisk coastal walks less than appealing. Thomas is sullen, as if it’s his fault the weather is miserable because it’s his birthday that’s brought them here despite Richard’s attempts to cheer him up. 

They’d gone out earlier during a sudden break in the weather and when it started raining again, huge fat drops that soak to the skin in moments, they carried on because they were already out and they were already wet so it couldn’t likely get any worse. But they’re old men now, they can’t shake off a cold as easily as they used to, and eventually they have to concede the day is a lost cause. 

‘We should head back to the hotel,’ says Thomas. 

His hair is plastered to his head and in the cold, biting wind it makes him look older, more sinned against than sinning, certainly in his estimation, by Richard, who had insisted they make it to the end of the headland at least. 

‘You’re probably right.’

‘You know I am,’ Thomas takes his hand, only for a moment, and squeezes, ‘come along, we can have a bath when we get back, think about dinner.’ 

Richard takes one last look at the sea, and the brightness at the horizon, hoping for a sudden reprieve from the weather but it doesn’t come and Thomas is already standing impatiently a little way from him eager to be back in the warmth of indoors. 

Back in their room, which isn’t as warm as either of them would like, Thomas sets the bath running and they move slowly around each other, setting themselves to rights. 

Richard’s already stripped himself off, a towel around his hips, as unabashed in his old age as he ever was; the curtains are closed and no one is going to trouble them here. He heads into the bathroom, full of steam now, close around him like hands against his skin, to collect up their abandoned clothes and hang them up to dry. 

Thomas had put the wireless on when they came in and the familiar, inoffensive Light Music filters through into the bathroom, diffuse and as soft as the steam in the air. He’s leaning against the bath, a hand in the water to check the temperature as he turns off the taps and he looks beautiful, pale, in the light from the bulb above him, older, but alive, safe and all for Richard. 

‘Do you want to take the bath first?’ says Thomas when Richard puts his hands on him.

‘I want you to dance with me.’

‘It’ll go cold,’ it’s not a real objection, Thomas is already noticeably more cheerful now they’re back inside and far more likely to indulge Richard’s whims. 

‘So we’ll add more hot. Dance with me.’

‘In the bathroom?’

‘Why ever not?’

‘You’re an old fool,’ Thomas says but he smiles fondly and lets Richard’s arms come round him, hand in hand, dancing in the small space, it seems to be a theme for them. 

They’re naked except for Richard’s towel and chest to chest in the hot, almost airless room, and it makes Richard feel giddy. Nothing will come of it this afternoon, perhaps not for the rest of the day, maybe not even the rest of the week, but it’s an intimacy he can’t believe he gets to have, even after all this time. To touch this man, to dance with him, skin to skin, is a marvel for which he will always be grateful. 

The tune on the radio ends and Thomas steps away, brushing their lips together in parting, as he climbs into the bath. Richard keeps a hold of his hand to help him although he doesn’t really need it and Thomas smiles, ‘stay in here with me. Keep me company?’


	6. York, June, 1953

Thomas sips at his squash and tries his hardest not to make a face, it’s far too strong and sweet enough to make his mouth feel furred. Still, the day has been bright and shiny and it’s hard not to get caught up in the spirit of the thing, watching the bunting fluttering between the terraced houses and listening to the shouts of the children. 

They’d all squeezed into number 73 earlier and sat around the television to watch the young princess become their Queen. Thomas and Richard have a television themselves but even now, after nearly 20 years, it feels like a risk to have other people in their home. Still, they’d been ushered to seats at the front, the children sat around them on the floor, and Thomas had felt welcome. 

Richard on the other hand is being uncharacteristically moody about the whole affair; part loyalty to a different monarch and part amusement at Thomas surrendering to the national mood. He’s leaning against the low wall around their front yard with his arms crossed, trying to suppress a smile. 

Someone has dragged out an old wind up gramophone and the scratchy strains of a waltz drift across the street towards them. Little Mabel from next door but one dashes between the gingham covered tables, her plaits bouncing. Her family moved to York in the last year. She’s only seven years old, her younger brother in tow, covered already in what looks like jam although the cakes are meant for later.

‘Mr Barrow, Mr Barrow, can you dance?’ 

Thomas lets her barrel into him, his hands out to steady her and make sure she doesn’t fall.

‘Of course I can, Miss Mabel, and it would be an honour if you would dance with me.’

He offers her his arm but she shakes her head resolutely, already steering her brother round to face her, ‘no, no. _Show_ me how to dance. Billy will dance with me.’

‘How can I show you if you can’t dance with you?’ 

Mabel bites her lip and looks around before her eyes widen in delight, clearly very pleased with the conclusion she’s just come to. 

‘Mr Richard can dance with you.’

‘I’m not sure Mr Richard wants to dance with me,’ 

Thomas tries to keep his voice light, not to let the worry show but Richard is already standing up from his perch and smiling, his hands out for Thomas to take, ‘come on Mr Barrow, we can’t disappoint a lady now can we?’ 

They dance often in their own home and in the homes of their friends but this is unthinkable, surely? A risk too far and not worth even the smile on Mabel’s face but Richard takes Thomas’s hand in his, the other at Thomas’s waist and starts to lead them in a slow waltz and the world doesn’t end, no one else on the street seems to take a blind bit of notice.

‘Do you see, Mabel? Billy? Your feet go forward, then to the side and back again,’ says Richard patiently, exaggerating his steps for them to watch. 

The children are clutching on to each other in a rough approximation of a dancer’s hold but Mabel is doing most of the leading, frowning as she concentrates on their feet. Him and Richard aren’t even that close together, a gap between them almost big enough for another person but it feels daring, exciting, to be dancing together and when he looks up Richard is smiling at him with such brightness it’s almost too much to look at. 

Thomas ducks his head looking back to Mabel and Billy when their mother, Vera, appears suddenly at their side, and they have to spring apart, but she’s smiling, looking apologetic, ‘I’m so sorry, gents. Mabel, William come along and don’t bother Mr Ellis and Mr Barrow.’ 

The children stop dancing, Billy abashed and Mabel defiant, ‘they were teaching us!’

Vera shakes her head, already drawing Thomas and Richard in, conspirators against wayward children, ‘she’s been on and me and her father to teach her to dance but where could we find the time?’ 

‘It’s no trouble,’ says Richard, still able to charm at 63 years old and Vera smiles again. 

‘Say thank you to the gentlemen, Mabel.’

‘Thank you Mr Barrow, thank you Mr Richard.’

Thomas manages a brief moment of irritation that after all these years he isn’t bestowed with the affectionate moniker of Mr Thomas but Mabel gives them a low curtsey and he forgives her immediately. 

‘You're welcome, Miss Mabel, Billy.’

Their mother holds up her glass, a few dregs of amber liquid in the bottom, ‘we’ve opened the sherry if you’d like a glass? I’ve been saving it since 1946. What better excuse than to toast Her Majesty, eh?’ 


	7. York, November, 1973

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it folks, this is the sad one ;_; it's only short but be warned!

The girls from Help the Aged always leave the wireless tuned to Radio One when they pop over to help with the shopping, to do the chores that are too difficult for old bones, and Richard makes pains to retune to Radio Three once they’ve left, hoping for something familiar. 

His reflection in the mirror over the fireplace is grey haired and ancient but he still makes an effort, shirt and tie every day, no excuse to let standards drop. He moves slowly, his knees twinging, but he still risks dancing with his eyes closed, he knows where everything is well enough, by now. When Thomas had his fall last year Richard thought they were both done for, sore and broken in this old house, but he’s managed. He keeps going. His hands are weathered, coarse and lined, his back is aching but he still knows the proper form, can still remember all the steps. He dances like it’s 1948, ‘36, ‘27. He dances like he isn’t alone. 

Richard drops his hands and looks around the empty room. He can’t remember the last time he actually danced with Thomas and now he never will again but he’s grateful they got to make use of all those chances. 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr!](https://lacerta26.tumblr.com)


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